Sandra Belloni — Volume 3 eBook

Wilfrid caught her as she slipped from her saddle.
His heart was in a tumult; stirred both ways:
stirred with wrath and with love. He clasped
her tightly.

“Am I?—­am I?” he breathed.

“My lover!” Emilia murmured.

He was her slave again.

For, here was something absolutely his own.
His own from the roots; from the first growth of sensation.
Something with the bloom on it: to which no
other finger could point and say: “There
is my mark.”

(And, ladies, if you will consent to be likened to
a fruit, you must bear with these observations, and
really deserve the stigma. If you will smile
on men, because they adore you as vegetable products,
take what ensues.)

Lady Charlotte did no more than double the time she
had asked for. The party were soon at a quiet
canter up the lanes; but entering a broad furzy common
with bramble-plots and oak-shaws, the Amazon flew ahead.
Emilia’s eyes were so taken with her, that she
failed to observe a tiny red-flowing runlet in the
clay, with yellow-ridged banks almost baked to brick.
Over it she was borne, but at the expense of a shaking
that caused her to rely on her hold of the reins,
ignorant of the notions of a horse outstripped.
Wilfrid looked to see that the jump had been accomplished,
and was satisfied. Gambier was pressing his hack
to keep a respectable second.

Lady Charlotte spun round suddenly, crying, “Catch
the mare!” and galloped back to Emilia, who
was deposited on a bush of bramble. Dismounting
promptly, the lady said: “My child, you’re
not hurt?”

“Not a bit.” Emilia blinked.

“Not frightened?”

“Not a bit,” was half whispered.

“That’s brave. Now jump on your
feet. Tell me why you rode over to us this morning.
Quick. Don’t hesitate.”

“Because I want Wilfrid to see his sister Cornelia,”
came the answer, with the required absence of indecision.

Emilia ran straightway to meet Wilfrid approaching;
and as both her hands, according to her fashion, were
stretched out to him to assure him of her safety and
take his clasp, forgetful of the instincts derived
from riding-habits, her feet became entangled; she
trod herself down, falling plump forward and looking
foolish—­perhaps for the first time in her
life plainly feeling so.

“Up! little woman,” said Lady Charlotte,
supporting her elbow.

“Now, Sir Wilfrid, we part here; and don’t
spoil her courage, now she has had a spill, by any
‘assiduous attentions’ and precautions.
She’s sure to take as many as are needed.
If Captain Gambler thinks I require an escort, he
may offer.”

The captain, taken by surprise, bowed, and flowed
in ardent commonplace. Wilfrid did not look of
a wholesome colour.

“Do you return?” he stammered; not without
a certain aspect of righteous reproach.

“Yes. You will ride over to us again,
probably, in a day or two? Captain Gambler will
see me safe from the savage admirers that crowd this
country, if I interpreted him rightly.”